


Deliverance.

by phantomunmasked



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:37:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomunmasked/pseuds/phantomunmasked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath of 1992.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deliverance.

The wind was a muffled howl as Peter contemplated the view. Westminster by night was a glorious sight, just there in the distance. The spires, lit in amber, the face of Big Ben a pale smudge against the driving rain outside. Everything seemed softer, tamer, in the persistent rain that besieged the city. The office around him bore the marks of some great battle fought and duly lost. Piles of paper, results from focus group sessions and countless reports on voter demographics lay about him, haphazard piles a stark reminder of their failure. The smell of stale coffee clung to the room, and Peter sighed. Every fibre of him hurt, ached with the effort of the past months, all now for naught. Raindrops on windows lent an unfocused blur to the sights before him, and as Peter took a long sip from his mug of tea (not quite warm enough, despite his best efforts with the ancient kettle in the pantry) he allowed himself the briefest moment of reflection. Another election lost. He supposed he should have seen it coming, really. It would have taken a miracle and then some for them to even come anywhere _close_ to beating their opponent’s margin. The Iron Lady was not to be trifled with. Rather bitterly, Peter thought, their opponents didn’t even have the decency to _try_. Neil was never going to unseat her, not in the light of all the good she had done the country. Peter sighed once more, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead to the cool glass. Neil was special to him, of course - never let it be said that Peter was not a loyal person, for he was, and exceedingly so. But Peter’s love for the party ran deeper, and as he stared out at 3am from Millbank at Westminster, he felt the tears come. 

He had failed Neil. He had failed so many. He had been hailed as the party’s saviour, the one who would claw back public support from the maw of the dragon now ensconced once again in Number 10. He had worked so hard only for all of it to come to naught; they called him the Prince of Darkness, master of the dark art of spin that would _absolutely_ win them the election. But what was a mere Prince in the face of such a legacy, hitherto untainted? He smiled a bitter smile as he recalled the grace that Neil had delivered his speech with earlier; the Welshman’s eyes had been quite dry as he forged ahead, thanking everyone, especially Peter, for their efforts in the campaign. It was the memory of Neil’s bittersweet smile, the knowledge of the trust and belief that Peter could have changed their fate, that defeated him. Peter felt thoroughly wretched, the guilt that had been simmering the entire day finally surging to the fore. Before, he had fought the miasma of emotion with logic; he had done his best, he had told himself. He ignored the little voice snidely questioning the veracity of that statement. Of course he had tried his best. His best simply had not been enough. The mug in his hand thudded down messily at a nearby table, and he sank to the floor, hugging his knees close. Great, heaving sobs tore themselves from him, and he let himself cry, let himself finally realise that he was _nothing_. Not the great saviour he had let Neil convince himself he was. Not the master of spin, not anyone of any significance. The tears blurred into one another and his nose ran freely, but for once Peter did not care. Who was there to see him, wretch that he was? 

It was therefore with no small amount of alarm that Peter felt a hand upon his shoulder. Jerking around, he hurriedly scrambled to his feet, rubbing furiously at his tearstained face with his hands as he confronted the intruder. The man was tall, taller than Peter himself, with a concerned air about him that belied the scowl upon his face. 

“You alright?” 

His accent placed him as coming from rather further North than Peter himself was, and the familiar keychain dangling from the bunch of keys in his hand placed him as one of Tony’s friends. 

“Fine, just fine.” 

Peter’s voice was sharp, and he frowned. He stared at the stranger for a while longer, slightly wary of those sharp blue eyes watching him. Finally, the stranger seemed to decide upon something, and raised his hand for a handshake.

“Alastair Campbell.”

Peter stared at the hand for a moment before grasping it, noting with some subconscious approval the strength of the grip. 

“Peter Mandelson.”

The taller man smirked at that, recognition flashing across his features.

“The Prince of Darkness, eh?”

At that, Peter wrenched his hand away and turned towards the bank of windows, towards Westminster once more. Fresh tears had sprung to his eyes at the conspirational tone this Alastair had taken. Was that title to mock him for the rest of his life? 

“Oi. Stop that. I didn’t mean it that way. Stop crying, please?”

His companion’s rough voice carried a slight undertone of panic and just a hint of compassion. Sniffling, Peter drew his sleeve across his running nose and scrubbed the tears from his face once more. 

“What do you want?” 

He sounded like he had a terrible head cold, but Peter was determined to keep his voice steady. There was relief in Alastair’s reply when it came.

“I’m supposed to come and meet with you, Tony sent me. Something about planning for the next war.”

Peter gaped. Already? Surely Tony had been mistaken? After all, did he not prove that he didn’t have the skills to win them the election? 

“I’m sure there has been some mistake…”  
“Nope, quite sure you’re the one I’m here to see. Tony said something about me combining forces with you. He’d been talking to Neil and Gordon – they both agree that I could be of use to you. Now, I may only be a mere student of the dark arts but I’m sure together we can wreak havoc on them Tories in five years time.”

A toothy and altogether far too sinister a grin lit Alastair’s features, and Peter found himself quite speechless. What hellhound had Tony sent him? More importantly, people _still_ believed in him? 

“I…”  
“Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

Alastair’s voice was firm, but not unkind.

“Look, we all knew going in that this was going to be a difficult fight. That dragon in Downing Street was going to be a difficult one to slay and her recent string of policies designed to sweeten the deal for voters didn’t help either. You did all you could. For fuck’s sake, Peter, I’ve been in press briefings you’ve given. They were, in short, far better than the drivel dished out by them Tories. So stop feeling sorry for yourself. You did good, and so what if good wasn’t good enough? Life goes on. The game moves on, and with or without you we will be facing the dragon’s party again in five years. So suck it up. The party needs its Prince, and from what I’ve heard, you’re not one to shirk your duties.”

Silence fell after Alastair’s spiel, and Peter blinked, stunned. He turned back to the window to stare at Westminster once more. Gone were the amber lights, the grey of dawn shrouding the famed spires in early morning mist. He could feel Alastair’s presence quite precisely behind him, a sort of manic, brilliant energy that seemed at times barely contained. The man shifted from foot to foot, in sharp counterpoint to Peter’s deliberate stillness. What was he to do now? Peter supposed he had two options – either to turn down Alastair’s offer of co-operation and to resign, as he had intended, or to work with him. The clocks on the wall punctuated the expectant silence that grew. Peter watched Westminster emerged slowly from the cloying mist, the familiar architecture lit suddenly by warm sunlight. The sun’s caress spread, and soon the hallowed Houses were illuminated in all their glory. Peter took a deep breath. In his heart of hearts he knew there could only be one choice, really. Loyalty ran in the marrow of him, and there was nothing stronger upon this earth that could compel him. He exhaled, one long sigh that seemed to lift the weight from his shoulders. A small smile crept its way to the surface as Peter thought of the possibilities to come. Surely five years was enough? He turned back to face the patiently expectant Alastair, who met his gaze with much wariness, as though he fully expected Peter to burst into tears again. Peter smirked, and something changed in Alastair’s eyes, a sudden shift to a predatory viciousness that caused Peter’s heart to skip a beat. Whether out of fear or some other emotion Peter did not care; the frisson of energy that bloomed between the two of them seemed promise enough, and Peter found a new hunger to utterly humiliate their opponents had awoken within him. Let them say what they like about the false Prince they had crowned. He would earn the title, damn them, and when he did, they would rue the day they ever doubted him. Alastair extended his hand for a handshake once more, reckless shark-grin firmly in place. 

And as Peter took it, he could not quite help the feeling that together, they would one day be the country’s deliverance from a party that, in time, they would teach the country to hate.


End file.
